chateau d'if
by Reboo
Summary: Someone gets stuck in prison


            Mildew and dust cover the floor. In its occasional dryness, or usual wetness, they float where they can, impeding on what is left of my cleanliness.  They are the only cushion between me, and the coarse black cold beneath.  The box is etched with sayings, old and new, some revered, others forsaken.

            The food is disgusting, putrid, horrible, raunchy food, yet I eat it.  It is the customary meal once a day.  It's that or nothing.  The food here would be considered food for the rats out there.  At first I couldn't stomach it, couldn't even stand to glance at it.  Occasionally in my first few days here I had flipped and demanded antiquate food, which was a mistake I learned never to repeat.  Better to have something in your stomach then nothing at all.

            Hunger can do anything to a man.  Your stomach begins to growl, the intense pain begins, like needles being poked into you.  Insides churn, you feel like your being eaten from the inside out.  I should know.  I've tried starvation as a way out of this rat infested hole in times of madness.  It didn't work.  I couldn't go through with it.  My conscious would rear up just when I was about to reach my goal.  Suicide is no longer an option.

            Everything is gritty, and seems to be covered in a thin layer of dust.  I sleep on a straw mat, raised slightly above the ground.  It's covered in the same filth.  It (the dust) probably covers all of me as well.

            I would not know.  Reflection is forbidden me.  It would not serve my soul any way.  Appearance no longer matters in a place as this.  The light is little; so dim you can barely see your hands on many occasions.  The light wiggles in through the metal bars at the top of one wall in my box, just slightly out of my reach, teasing me with that which I cannot have.

            Sounds from elsewhere don't really exist either.  Speech is most likely beyond my capability now.  I only talk with my mind.  I have neither seen nor spoken to anyone since I arrived here, except the guard I see once a day.  I came to the conclusion that talking to myself was a sign of madness.  The only noises that reach my ears are that of the guards' footsteps, loud dragging sounds against the stone floor.  Their footsteps echo quite well, as do those of the eerie one's as well.  Shrieks, or mumblings resound throughout this place, who's name I've long forgotten.  They penetrate the thick walls.  When they're loud enough the dust will move and resettle.  At one time in insanity I had watched and counted the little flecks as they made their descent to their new place.

            At other times I was one making those cries that would make an ordinary mans ear drums shatter.  It was like the shrieks could cut through a layer of blackness.  My cries would make any man shudder; they did the new guards anyway.  They would look upon me with terror as though I would kill them with my own two hands.  Their faces would contort in such an odd way, I had noticed once when I was close enough to see.  As soon as they left I would release a diabolical hoarse laugh, and listen as they scattered faster down the hallway.

            My pit is said to be the residing place of everyone innocent.  I know I was, to an extent anyway.  I was an enlisted man in Napoleon's army, a good one too, as was noted by my rank.  I got drunk one night and started leaking stories, and some naiveté told on me.  I would have wringed his neck had I the chance.  OR at the least made him smell the constant must, taste the food, deal without being able to see too much, make him roll in the dirt and grime constantly surrounding me.  

            It's a despicable existence for any man; I just wait for it to end.

            My surrounds assume my mood, dark and dreary.  My anger comes and goes fueled by the thoughts of who landed me here, and what I could have had.  They were just looking for a couple of bucks, ha, like that really justified ratting on me.

            My muscles are lax and weak.  I've gone thin to the bone with what's fed me, and the lack of movement.  Bones creak at certain movements.  Cold air sweeps through the air and chills me.  The walls and the floor keep the cold and the hot, either way retaining their dampness. 

            Escape is useless, human contact is slim to none.  I wish for release, relish for its moment.  Hope is all that keeps me alive while I wait to rejoin humanity, to see and taste the fresh air.  I just wish my chance would come soon.  Napoleon has led all of us to the pits.


End file.
